‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘If it develops. How about swapping me some chicken with nuts for some spiced beef?’
3
At 9.45 the next morning I was sitting at my desk with a stick-on label, ballpoint pen and masking tape, rewrapping and readdressing the Lamberte ammunition package. An hour before I’d taken the bullets to a gun-freak friend who loads his own ammunition. He’d obliged me by removing the gunpowder from the. 357s.
‘Still dangerous, Cliff,’ he’d said. ‘Still got a capacity to go off pop.’
I’m no expert forger, but the block capitals on the original label weren’t difficult to copy and there were no eccentric spellings or European sevens to worry about. I’d almost finished the job to my satisfaction when Paula Wilberforce walked in without knocking.
‘Hi. What’s that?’
I turned the package over so that the label faced down and folded up the original wrapping. ‘You’re early,’ I said.
She dropped her backpack to the floor and sat down. ‘I like to be early. Catch people napping. Though you seem to have been working very seriously. What is that? It looks like a book. What’s the title?’
‘Etiquette, by Emily Post.’
She jumped up, turned and left the room, closing the door behind her. Then she knocked and opened the door an inch. ‘Better?’
I said, ‘Come in, Mrs Wilberforce.’
She strode back to the chair. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday and her eyes were the same glittering blue. ‘I’m pushy,’ she said. ‘I know it. It puts some people off. I hope you won’t be one of them.’
‘I can be pushy myself. Let’s move this along, Mrs Wilberforce. Have you got a questionnaire or something? I’m rather busy today.’
‘You’re not busy. You’re sitting here wrapping up a book. There’re no files in evidence. There’s dust on the furniture and…’ she leaned forward, ‘wine stains on the desk. How’s the private detective business?’
‘Lousy. Aren’t you going to tape this?’
‘I never tape the preliminary session.’
‘There is only going to be one session, Mrs Wilberforce. Busy or not, I don’t want to talk about what I do. I only agreed to see you in a moment of weakness. I was flattered by the attention I got yesterday from you and your classmates.’
‘They’re not my classmates!’ she flared. ‘I’m in an advanced sociology seminar at UTS.’
‘Good for you. But I really don’t think I can help you.’
‘You can but you won’t. OK, that’s fine. I can make something of that.’ She reached into the backpack and took out a miniature tape recorder. ‘We’ll do it your way. How long have you been a PEA?’
‘I told you that yesterday. A long time.’
‘Good crack, as I recall. But I mean precisely.’
‘Mrs Wilberforce, I…’
She clicked off the recorder. ‘OK. Let me spend a day with you. See what your day is like.’
‘No.’
Tears appearing in the blue eyes seemed to enlarge them and make them not blurry but even more penetrating. ‘Please,’ she said. Her wide, handsome mouth parted, revealing strong white teeth. A vein throbbed in the smooth tan column of her neck.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Why not?’
‘You guessed right. I’m not actually doing much today. I’ve got a man to see in Granville, later.’ I tapped the package. ‘This has to do with a case but it doesn’t require any significant action today.’ Bugger it, I thought. Why did I tell her that?
She blinked and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘OK,’ she said. She turned the recorder on again and proceeded to interview me politely and intelligently for about twenty minutes, asking sensible, not overly-intrusive questions and making perceptive responses.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hardy.’ She spoke without irony or sarcasm. She checked that the recorder had functioned properly, put it away in her bag and stood up. I stood too, and took the hand she extended.
I mumbled something about being glad to help.
‘Are you going to talk to Mr Sanderson’s other class?’
‘I guess so. Why?’
‘No reason. Thanks again. Bye.’
I watched her walk to the door. Her thick blonde hair hung halfway down her back and her movements were graceful. She closed the door and opened it again almost immediately. I caught a flash of her eyes. ‘See you again,’ she said.
The box of bullets had been sent from the Post Office on Broadway near the brewery that used to have a big Tooth’s sign over the gateway. Now the sign says Carlton. I preferred the old sign and the old beer. I parked in Rose Street and walked to the Post Office. I might have been wasting my time. It might not matter to the recipient where the package was posted from, but, then again, it might. It was against the law to put live ammunition, even doctored like this lot, through the post but, like the original sender, I hadn’t included a return address, so who would ever know? I despatched the parcel and got a receipt for the postage-an item for Mrs Lamberte’s account.
‘How long will that take, would you say?’
The pimply-faced youth behind the counter looked at the address. ‘Two days, three at the outside.’
‘Guaranteed?’
‘You can priority pay it if you want.’
A priority sticker would give the parcel a very different appearance. I shook my head and left the Post Office.
That left me with the Granville job. Nothing much to it. Cy Sackville wanted a certain Lionel Peckham to appear as a material witness in a case involving one of his valued clients. Cy had worked out an immunity deal with the prosecution for Peckham, but he couldn’t locate him to inform him of the fact. Cy had explained the complicated legal manoeuvres involved but had lost me in the telling. All that mattered to me was that I was obligated to him for many legal services beyond the bounds of duty and often unpaid for. I had traced Peckham to a junk yard in Granville. All I had to do was front him, show him the letter that guaranteed him immunity and tell him where and when to show up. Easy.
As I cruised past the junk yard I saw at once that it was not going to be so easy. The place was in a cul-de-sac near the railway line and well away from houses and activities carried on by honest citizens. The weed-choked, rusted cyclone fence, the galvanised iron shed set well back from the street and the rusting Ford, Holden and Toyota bodies screamed hot cars, hot parts, hot whatever-you-cared-to-name. That was a worry. More of a worry was the dog.
An Alsatian. Black and a dirty yellow. Very mean. It was chained up near the gate to the lot so that it couldn’t quite get out to the pavement. It looked as if it wanted to more than it wanted its next meal and the ribs showing through its scruffy hide suggested meals weren’t all that frequent. As cars drove past it strained at the chain. A man walked by on the other side of the street and the dog stretched the chain to its last link as it watched him out of sight.
I parked opposite the gate about thirty metres from the dog. It watched me and I watched it. I also looked into the yard for signs of human life. A big man wearing overalls wandered into view carrying what looked like a gearbox. He answered the description Cy had given me-190 centimetres, one hundred kilos, fortyish, ginger hair. I got out of the car and crossed the road. The dog started to bark when I was still twenty metres away and it kept on barking until I stood just outside the length of the chain. The man in the overalls looked towards the gate. He put the piece of machinery down and wiped his hands on a rag.
I took out Cy’s letter in its pure white envelope and waved it like a flag of truce. ‘Mr Peckham,’ I yelled. ‘Good news.’
The dog barked louder.
‘Call him off. I want to talk to you.’
He shook his head. I wondered whether I could hurdle the dog and get beyond the reach of the chain before it recovered. Glen might have made it; I knew I had no chance. I went back to the car and took my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson from the glove box. Back across the street I held the pistol at arm’s length. The dog was rearing up, pressing forward. If a link in the chain or the fastening to its collar gave, blood would have to flow. I lifted the gun, then brought it down slowly and pointed it at the dog’s head.